


even the best of us (come back some day)

by guineaDogs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Colorado, Friends to Lovers, Friends to Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Gay Panic, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Slice of Life, Slow Burn, bonding over animals, weird cars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Down on his luck, Keith had no choice but to move back to the hometown he tried so hard to escape from. But starting over might not be so bad, especially when the twice divorced, and very single, man of his dreams was also back in town.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time attempting to write a slow burn, but I'm very excited to share this story and I hope you all like it.
> 
> you can catch me on Twitter @ guineaDogs

Nine years.

It had been nine years since he stepped foot into his hometown, and Keith couldn’t immediately decide what was worse: the fact that he was probably going to be here indefinitely, or that the sleepy town wedged between the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and the High Plains hadn’t changed in any real fundamental way. 

The main thing that had changed, as far as he could tell, was the construction project that began during the summer he finished high school was now completed: an overpass that cut through the unremarkable town, allowing anyone travelling the interstate to bypass unless they had a reason to stop. How many people did just that? How many saw no reason to take one of the few exits and opted to continue through the foothills? 

He wished that was an option for him, but an accident and a horrific series of bad luck drove him to what felt like rock bottom. There wasn't another option.

It was with heavy regret that he flipped the blinker on, indicating his intent to take the next exit, which brought him to Main Street and the center of the small town. Between this and the only other main road that intersected it, any heavily-trafficked businesses or attempted tourist locations were concentrated here.

So much of the town felt like a time capsule: Main Street was brick-lain, with painted lines so faded that it was impossible to distinguish which parts of the broad street were intended to be turning lanes or streetside parking. The buildings maintained the same façades they always had with the intricate craftsmanship indicative of 1880s Italianate architecture. Some buildings needed to be repainted or otherwise a little preservation work done, but that was true last time he was here, too.

The green cross symbols adorning signs for businesses or affixed to their doors or windows was a new addition. The building that was originally a butcher's shop—the faded and chipped away paint was still visible on the red bricks—that had become a Mexican restaurant, then a bakery, was now a hair salon with a 'for sale' sign taped to the storefront window. That wasn't new.

Keith flipped the blinker back on and turned onto one of the side streets. It was a series of turns following that lead him toward the street his childhood home was on. It was set on a hill and had a significant incline that made driving on icy and snow packed roads precarious. Fortunately, he was still several months off before that was a concern.

He sat uneasily as memories flooded back to him as he turned onto that street. This street was both the place where he learned to ride a bike when he was five, and the place where he broke his arm at age 13 when he decided to see just how fast he could skateboard down. As soon as the cast was off, he'd ridden the slope several more times, and until he was able to drive a car, it was the fastest speeds he could reach.

His childhood home was at the top of the hill where the curved road leveled off and continued onward. Keith knew he was lucky he had a home to come back to, especially in circumstances like this one. After all, it was paid for. The only time he actively thought about it was when he got the statement in the mail about paying property taxes.

The wheels of his car made a crunching sound as they slowed against the gravel driveway. For the most part, it looked the same as last time he saw it. It was just a little more weathered and—he discovered once he got out of the car and talked up the path to the front door—it had a fractured window. He could see the cracks in the glass; when the sunlight caught it just right, it gleamed. That had to be new; surely the company he paid to spray for pests quarterly would've mentioned it.

He was going to have to do something about that. Just like he'd have to do something about how overgrown his lawn was; with summer in full swing, the blue grama was a few inches longer than most would consider appropriate, even in a community that fortunately refused to organize an HOA. 

The downside of his combined unwillingness to live here by choice and his outright refusal to sell the property meant that all his work was cut out for him.

The door still unlocked with his key as it always did, and small mercies were things like the electric and water companies turning service on when they were supposed to, as a light illuminated the living room as soon as fussed with the lightswitch. But that was the extent of it.

The living room was sparsely decorated, but exactly as he'd left it. The couch, along with a few other pieces, was covered in a thick protective sheet. There was a thick layer of dust over it, and despite his efforts to remove the sheet without disturbing the dust, he managed to send a cloud of dust in the air.

Perhaps, he'd just sleep in the car tonight.

* * *

Keith made good use of the remaining daylight. His insistent need to stretch, move, and use up all the pent up energy he needed to expel after finishing the last leg of his drive back here meant he wasted little time in getting the house to a habitable state. 

It would take a while to give every room in the house the deep cleaning it desperately needed, but at least it wasn't so large that it felt impossible. It was only a small two bedroom bungalow from 1917. With the renovation his father had once done to make the living room and kitchen more open concept, it was really a four room house: the common area, the bathroom, his room, his dad's. 

He tackled it a room at a time. Dusting and wiping down the surfaces and walls in the living room and kitchen, sweeping the floors, running the water long enough that the water came out clear. The air was thick with dust and sweltering heat, but at least it wasn't humid. There just wasn't decent airflow even with the windows open and there was absolutely no way he was going to even  _ touch _ the swamp cooler, much less run it for the first time for so long without maintenance.

Keith tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up as he craned his neck down to wipe away some of the sweat pouring down his face. That offered a moment of reprieve as he assessed his work. There were garbage bags filled with dust, debris, and irreparably filthy cleaning materials piled in the corner, out of the way while they waited to be tossed.

The wooden mantle sorely needed a polish, possibly even a restaining, but with the thick layer of dust cleaned away from its surface, it looked presentable. The same was true for the shelves, the kitchen hutch, the counters. The floors were clean. Truly, it looked clean enough that he felt comfortable in moving in the items he felt were important enough to bring with him.

He'd always been something of a minimalist, so apart from the two large duffles tightly packed with his clothes and another with his bedding, he only had a few boxes of movies, games, and other personal items to bring inside. There hadn't been a point in trying to bring the furniture from his old studio: it amounted to a bed, a coffee table, and a dresser, all of which existed in this house. He'd tried to pawn it off on someone using one of those apps, but between the haggling and someone wanting gas money just to be able to  _ pick up a free item _ , Keith gave up on the endeavor and decided to make it his landlord's problem.

It was during his second trip into the house that he noticed the Stare from one of his neighbors from over the small row of hedges that divided the property line. The word was even capitalized in his mind as he thought it, as it was so indicative of the behavior found in small towns like this.

It wasn't inherently a negative stare. Sometimes it was, because longtime residents had been beaten down over the years to the point where their leathery faces viewed anything new as suspect. Generally, however, it was the struggle of trying to determine whether they knew someone, someone to which they were related, or if the other person was simply someone they periodically passed while they shopped at one of the two grocery stores in town.

But whether the neighbor thought he knew him, or whether she thought anything of someone moving into the house, Keith didn't know and didn't care. Instead, he stopped mid-trek back to the house and returned the deadpan expression. It didn't take long for her to look away, and he resumed moving things into the house.

The living room became a staging ground, where he stacked different things in an arrangement that made sense to him. By this point, he needed a breather, but he still didn't allow that for himself.

He just needed to get the bathroom sorted. Just that, and the bedrooms could wait until tomorrow. That was more than reasonable. The moment he opened that door, however, he was immediately hit with the stench of decay, like something small found its way into the cabinet under the sink and died there.

Keith really, truly, hated everything.

* * *

The bathroom still smelled off the following day, even after finding the source of the stench and leaving the bathroom window open overnight, but at least it wasn't completely rank. A generous amount of aerosol deodorizer that he bought from the store, along with a few essentials—more cleaning and household supplies, the bare minimum amount of food he needed to make low-effort meals until he settled—seemed to do the trick. The only other thing the bathroom needed was time to air out fully.

Somehow, despite having had the worst luck over the past few months, the bathroom was the only room with issues that he was aware of. Granted, that was based on superficial observations only. For all he knew, the roof could cave in the moment there was a significant thunderstorm, even though he found no evidence of leaks. He also had not noticed any backflow issues. 

Keith knew better than to think he was out of the woods; no house left vacant this long was without some sort of issue that was going to be an absolute pain in the ass to deal with, but he hoped it was one that he wouldn't have to deal with right away.

Cleaning his childhood bedroom wasn't so bad. It was just as dusty as every other room with faded posters on the walls of bands to which he no longer listened. The dresser had a few soccer and track trophies, which he immediately placed on the top shelf in his closet. Out of sight, out of mind. Keith intended to take the posters down as well, but as soon as he untacked a corner and saw how acid stained the walls were, he thought better of it. At least for now.

Beyond that, Keith failed to find a reason to change much about his own room. His old bed was still here, and he was cognizant of the fact that he would have to get used to sleeping on a twin-sized mattress again, but that wasn't that big of a deal. His room was far too narrow So what if his toes hung over the end of the bed? He tended to sleep with his legs curled up anyway, and it wasn't like there was any need for space beyond what he needed for himself.

After unceremoniously dropping the duffles on the mattress, which was covered in a dry rot protective covering, Keith squared his shoulders and braced himself to face the one room in the house itself that he'd been avoiding.

His father's bedroom.

Much like every other room in the house, as well as the attic, unfinished basement, and the adjacent storage shed, he hadn't stepped foot in there since he packed up his rustbucket of a hand-me-down pickup truck and kissed this town goodbye. But even then, he'd only quickly gone in, grabbed the important documents and other information his father had kept stored in a safe in the back of his closet, and an item or two that he couldn't bear to part with. 

Like his father’s jacket. And the framed family photo of his father, himself, and the mother he didn’t remember. Both were carefully packed away, and would find their new home in his childhood bedroom, just as they’d done every time he moved to a new apartment. 

Apart from that, he couldn’t bear to be in there. He still felt that way, but what choice did he have? The only thing worse than leaving this house as he had for so long was moving back and neglecting to keep his father’s old room dusted and maintained. 

_ I’m home, Dad. _ He thought, looking around the room before he got to work.

* * *

Four days.

He had four days of relative peace and quiet before his solitude spent cleaning, unpacking, and reorganizing was interrupted by a sharp bang on his front door. It pulled him from the thoughts that occupied his mind as he cleaned the tall cabinets above the kitchen counter. It required him standing precariously on a chair to reach the furthest corners, and he was sure to thank his quick reflexes for ensuring that he didn’t fall right onto his ass due to being startled by such an abrupt sound. 

Keith got down, dusting his hands off against his jeans as he headed to the front door. He didn’t know who or what to expect. More than likely, it was someone who was just lost. The hinges of the door creaked as he opened the front door, and he barely had a moment to register who the woman with the mousy-brown hair was before she started laying into him.

“When were you going to tell me you were back?” Pidge was just as he remembered her, just older, like he was. She also looked pissed, and completely unimpressed with him.

“Hi, Pidge.” 

“Well?”

“Do you want to come in?” Keith didn’t want to have this conversation in the front doorway. It wasn’t that he was worried that anyone would overhear them or anything, but it was prime season for the obnoxious biting gnats, and the fewer opportunities they had to make their way inside, the better. He left the door hanging open long enough for her to follow him into the living room. She closed the door behind her, looking around as Keith settled on the couch, wedging one of his arms against the back of it. 

“I was going to DM you,” he murmured finally, when the silence between them got too much for even him to bear. It wasn’t a lie, either. If anything, it was a half truth. Keith intended to message her, but he hadn’t given much thought as to when that would be.

The initial response was a noncommittal hum, the sort where it was obvious that his longtime friend knew it was a flimsy excuse at best, but decided not to call him out on it. Instead, her words were soft, almost quiet. “Veronica told me she saw you at Wal-Mart the other day. I didn’t realize you were back in town.” 

“Yeah, I—” He wasn’t ready to get into it. Maybe when he was a little more removed from his predicament, maybe with a few shots of tequila in him. “Didn’t tell anyone. It was a snap decision.” He hit rock bottom and had no other choice. Same difference. 

“Well,” she tilted her head toward him, smiling. “You should come to the Canary tonight. Everyone will be happy to see you.” 

The prospect of spending any amount of time with old friends that he wasn’t sure he had anything in common with anymore gave him a peculiar sense of dread that he couldn’t quite place. Keith frowned. “I have a lot to do around here.” Like cleaning out the gutters, mowing, or scrolling through Reddit for six hours instead of doing the thing Pidge suggested. 

“Bullshit! There’s nothing you need to be doing tonight that you can’t just do tomorrow. Eight o’clock.”

* * *

The Canary was an absolute dive. Located in an old cannery, the walls of the bar were covered in old mining photos and artifacts. There was even a large piece of coal used as a doorstop. It didn’t do much to cool off the interior of the bar, not when it was a north-facing building and most winds moved eastward off of the mountains. 

Last time he was here, it was poorly lit and hazy with billowing clouds of cigarette smoke. The venue no longer allowed smoking, but he was still hit with the smell of stale nicotine the moment he stepped inside. His stomach churned, but Keith was uncertain as to whether it was due to the smell, or to the boisterous laughter he still recognized permeating from the back corner of the room. 

Why was he doing this? Why was he doing  _ any of this? _ Grumbling under his breath, he headed to the bar itself, leaning against the counter and beckoning over the tired bartender. 

"Whiskey coke." Keith's elbows dug into the hardwood counter and did his best to ignore how the fading varnish left it feeling tacky. 

The bartender's eyes flitted over him. "You got an ID, son?"

He was nearing thirty-one years old; there was no need for that as far as he was concerned, but Keith nodded, reaching to pluck his wallet from his back pocket. His driver's license was an unimpressive thing, but his scowling face was on the card, as was his birth date that confirmed he was well over the legal drinking age.

"That'll be eight bucks," the bartender informed him as he returned the card to Keith. He busied himself, pouring a generous amount of Jack Daniels in the glass, followed by what appeared to just be a splash of coke. He placed the glass on a small napkin and slid it across the counter. "I know you, don't I."

"Nope." Keith's fingers immediately curled around the glass. The whiskey burned down his throat, all the way to his gut. Almost immediately, he felt a small amount of his tension ebb away. 

The bartender's eyes narrowed in recognition. "You're Tex's kid, aren't you."

Rather than answer, Keith took another hearty swig of his drink and ambled toward the table in the far back corner. He wasn't expecting or wanting fanfare, and he fortunately didn't get it—it was a couple  _ heys, it's been a while, man _ as his old friends made a space for him at the table. 

There was an easiness that always existed among the rest of the group, and it was apparent that hadn't changed. They'd exchanged numbers and pleasantries, and the conversation continued from wherever it left off when he joined them. 

He was sitting at the same table but he felt like he was on the periphery as Lance made a reference to something he didn't understand. He watched Pidge's indignant response as she tossed a balled up napkin in Lance's direction. 

Hunk sat across from, and when they made eye contact, he offered Keith a kind smile. "What do you think about being back in town?"

There wasn't a delicate way of saying he hated it, so Keith allowed himself another sip of his drink before offering a diplomatic response. "It doesn't seem like it's changed much."

Lance sputtered, as if that was something to be offended by. "Sure it has! We have Starbucks, and a Domino's now."

"Domino's at the expense of losing the doughnut shop," Pidge added, which was a devastating blow. If memory served, that had been the one place where any sort of decently made baked goods could be found, including kolaches. It definitely was a loss.

"That's not really a sell." Maybe he shouldn't have been so pessimistic, but after living in the city for so long, this place was even more lackluster. 

"Then it's a good thing we have  _ at least _ thirty dispensaries now. Surely you can find something to dislodge that—"

" _ Lance _ ," Hunk interjected, shaking his head. "I get it, Keith, really. I moved back about five years ago. It is what it is, but the cost of living is still affordable here. There are few places like that left in the state."

The conversation descended into what brought them all back. For Hunk, it was the astronomical cost of rent along the Front Range. Pidge returned for stewardship after earning an obscene number of degrees. Lance never left. Keith mentioned his boring day job, and how every other waking moment was dedicated to his passion. 

Or, his old passion. He was careful with the verbiage, not wanting to be asked questions he intended to refuse answering. He still wasn't prepared for the one thing he  _ was _ asked, though.

“So, drag racing, huh.” Lance commented, taking a swig of the pisswater beer he'd been nursing. Judging by the empty bottles, it was his third. He sighed as he set the bottle back down on the table, as if his choice in beverage were at all refreshing. “What’s it… what’s it like, you know, wearing the  _ cutlets? _ ” Lance, speaking like a straight man who'd seen exactly one episode of  _ Ru Paul _ , gestured as if he was grabbing invisible tits against his chest. He noticed the glare Keith shot at him and looked toward his other friends while stabbing a thumb in Keith’s direction. “Why’s Keith looking like he wants to kill me?”

Pidge choked on her drink, attempting to stifle her laughter. “It wasn’t that kind of—”

“I haven't seen you in about a decade. And I still hate you.” Keith sighed miserably, knocking back the rest of his whiskey and coke. The chair screeched against the tile as he scooted back. 

Lance's mouth formed an 'o' when he realized they'd been talking about two different things. “ _ What? _ No homo, but how was I supposed to know you meant the cars when you’ve got the legs for the other?” 

“I’m leaving.”

“C’mon, bud, just ignore him,” Hunk offered. “Shiro should be here in ten minutes.” 

Shiro. 

_ Shiro was back here too? _

Keith steeled himself. He couldn’t see Shiro now, or ever. “Nope, this was a mistake. Lose my number.” He felt slightly dizzy. He shouldn’t have stood up so quickly, but he couldn’t shake off the innate  _ need _ to vacate the bar as soon as possible. Having already paid for his drink, there was nothing stopping him from making his way to the exit, not even his friends’ protests.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the kind comments! it warms my heart that you enjoyed the previous chapter. hopefully that remains true for this one.
> 
> you can find me on Twitter at @ guineaDogs

Fresh air was exactly what he needed. By the time he was half a block away from the Canary, the raucous bar noise faded and the lights dimmed to only what the antique streetlights on Main Street provided. The occasional truck passed, but in the whole four blocks he walked on this stretch of road, he only saw one other pedestrian. Granted, it was nearing 10 o'clock—a quick press of a button on his phone confirmed that—which meant that it was not only obscenely late by the town’s standards, but also, he'd not even made it two hours around his old crew. Time was weird like that.

The thing about passage of time, though, was that he was uncertain of how much he could trust his own memory. He'd read something about that before, how in a sense his memories weren't the honest retelling of an event he experienced. Instead, the brain altered memories by the virtue of remembering them. It made sense—some things no longer hurt nearly as bad when he remembered them as they had in the past—but he was hardly a neuroscientist. 

It was an unhelpful thing to think about: how reliable was his memory? Had those people truly once been his friend, or had he always been the tag along, the person accepted into the group because one very specific person once made a space for him?

Keith grumbled to himself, and turned on his heels to head up the southbound street that led to his home. The sidewalk was cracked and jagged; sections of the sidewalk jutted upward at sharp angles, like miniature imitations of the peaks and cliffs that surrounded the town. Sowthistle and bindweed sprouted up through the cracks, determined to reclaim the land the cement covered. 

He shined his phone flashlight on the sidewalk, lest he misstep and stumble during his trek uphill. The streetlights here were modern, but they were spaced further apart as the street became increasingly residential. The final stretch was nearly pitch black. The streetlight flickered, but nothing more than that. Save for his phone, and the traces of lighting from nearby houses and the compact downtown district downhill, there was little in the way of lighting.

The skies were clear, with more stars visible than he'd ever seen during his time living in the city. The night sky designation had to be somewhere between the transitional stage of suburban and rural, if not outright rural. The view was spectacular, and for as chafed as he was about being back in this town, Keith could admit that this was a view he'd missed.

Something about the stars, and the infiniteness of space, put his mind at ease. There was a certain sort of comfort in knowing that he was so small, insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.

It didn't take him much longer to reach his home, and that left him with a decision to make: he could walk up the drive and let himself in, and spend the rest of the night in an empty house. That didn't bother him; he was used to being alone. But between the options of spending that time alone inside or outside among the stars, he chose the latter.

Further up the road, there was an open field. Like most property in the region, it was probably privately owned, but he'd refused to heed any signage about trespassing when he was a bullheaded teen, and he paid no mind to it now. It wasn't that he lacked any sense of self-preservation; he just knew it was unlikely that anyone was going to chase after him with a shotgun for being on it. It was simply a small parcel of land covered in shrubs and the lone pinyon pine, wedged between the back of his property line, and the old brick and mortar schoolhouse that had been vacant as long as he could remember.

The prospect of encountering a rattlesnake pressed him more than anything else, and that hardly stopped him from finding a prime stargazing spot. Keith merely waved his phone about enough to confirm there weren't animals along the path. He sat down on sunscorched earth and allowed himself to enjoy the relative silence under the night sky.

He didn't want to think about how long it had been since he'd done this. It was easy to get lost and removed from nature, from his roots, when constantly surrounded by cement and asphalt. The view right now, the bright twinkling of far-off stars, was the only thing that mattered. He exhaled, allowing his tension to ebb away as he grounded himself by identifying what he could still remember.

_ Polaris. Cassiopeia. Andromeda. Draco. _

And on, and on, until he could identify all the stars and constellations he could without consulting a map. Admittedly, he was rusty. It didn’t matter how much he loved the stars, and space as a whole, years of neglect and focusing his attention elsewhere would do that. 

_ All I have is time now. _ As miserable of a thought that was, there was a particular silver lining. He could spend more nights out here, reacquaint himself with the skies. He could even travel: there were two dark sky sites relatively close. He could let himself get lost there. He could find out if he could still navigate using the night skies.

The thought evoked memories of long hikes across the foothills, along the mountains, through deep valleys. Weekend camping trips with his father a lifetime ago. A firm hand on his shoulder, while another pointed out different constellations as he explained how to orient himself in relation to the stars. 

If he could see the stars, he’d never be lost.

If he did get lost, he’d always be able to find himself. 

Just like he’d need to all those years ago, he needed to find himself again.

* * *

It was late enough that there were no longer any traces of the daytime summer heat. The strong winds that dominated the day faded into a gentle breeze cool enough that it raised goosebumps on his bare arms. As much as Keith was aware of the vast temperature differences between night and day—somewhere in the ballpark of thirty degrees, if he had to guess—he hadn’t thought to bring a light jacket. 

He wasn’t  _ actually _ cold, but the awareness was a decent motivator to decide to head back down the hill. As he stood, there was a rustling in the grass. But it wasn’t  _ him, _ nor was it any of the vegetation anywhere near him. He didn’t have time to fish his phone from his pocket, much less turn the flashlight on. He was limited to what the moonlight could illuminate, and what his eyes could see in this sort of darkness.

That amounted to seeing something medium sized, dark like a shadow, running on all fours toward the schoolhouse. Process of elimination and inference determined it wasn’t a bear or a racoon. Maybe it was a large fox, or a small coyote. Neither of those options accounted for the peculiar  _ gait _ the animal had.

Keith dusted off his jeans, and was halfway back to the road when his blood ran cold with an unfortunate realization: it wasn’t a wild animal at all. It was a dog. Possibly an injured one, or a  _ young _ one, which would’ve accounted for the clumsiness he managed to see in the darkness. He worried on his bottom lip. As much as he wanted to search it out, it was likely he’d only manage to scare it more right now. By the time he was properly on the road again, he had a proper course of action planned for morning.

Daylight came far too soon.

Morning sunlight seeped through Keith's bedroom window in what felt like a mere moment after he closed his eyes. In truth, it was slightly longer than that, but still completely unwanted. He'd never been a morning person, and that was never more true than in the summer, when sunrise was inevitably somewhere near 5:30 in the morning.

Grumbling, Keith rolled onto his opposite side and buried his face in his spare pillow. It allowed him to drift off a little longer, but only until the rising morning heat became too much to bear. He was accustomed consistently not getting enough sleep, but it didn't make getting up any easier.

Each movement, from sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the mattress to every movement of his legs that took him one step closer to the coffee pot in his kitchen took a concerted effort. One day, he needed to get one of those pots with a timer, so he could do all the prep work the night before and wake up to the nutty aroma of strong dark roast first thing in the morning.

He'd told himself that for years, ever since he learned that such a magical device  _ existed, _ and that alone was proof that it was unlikely that he'd ever indulge himself. Instead, he existed on autopilot, and did what he always did.

Keith stuffed a filter in the filter basket, and grabbed the back of ground coffee he'd left on the counter the day before. The packaging was black, with mountains and a horse on it, and when looking for the limited selection of dark roasts Safeway carried, that one seemed promising enough. Bagged coffee had suggested instructions, but he never paid them any mind. Much like many aspects in life, Keith played by his own rules and created his own paths.

When it came to coffee, the tablespoons of coffee to ounces of water, or whatever measurements this company used, didn't matter. He simply opened one of the corners of the bag, and poured the ground coffee nearly to the rim of the filter. He poured water into the reservoir, closed the lid, turned it on. The pot was always slow to start, but by the time he showered, there would be eight cups of coffee waiting on him.

Scalding water pounding against his head and shoulders was another necessary component of his morning routine. The pressure wasn't as strong as he'd like, and the showerhead had no additional settings, but he could deal with it for the time being. He needed to install a new one, and that was just another item on the never-ending list of things he needed to do, even if he didn't particularly want to do the installation aspect of it.

Just like he didn't want to look at his phone at all, but he owed his friends a text. He groaned at the thought, and turned so the hot water pelted his face. It wasn't pleasant, but it was still better than the prospect of saying anything to them after what happened last night. He was clearly not ready to see old friends or... ready to be around people here in general.

It was a small town. There was no such thing as anonymity. That also meant that it was far too small to sit on his hands and pretend he hadn't been something of an ass.

He turned the faucet off as the water started to run cold and stepped out of the shower onto the bath mat. He haphazardly rubbed a towel against his hair and squeezed enough of the water out that his hair was no longer dripping. He dried the rest of himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and left the bathroom to head back to his room after making a quick detour to the kitchen to pour his coffee into an obnoxiously large mug to bring along with him.

The mattress squeaked and gave under him as he sat down on the bed, scooting close against the wall. Keith cradled the mug in his hands, and relished in the warmth. This was the good sort, not the overheated sensation that came from sleeping too far into the morning. Each sip was rich and bold, and the bitterness helped him feel functional as much as the caffeine did.

When he was about halfway through his cup, he traded it out for his phone, which rested on his nightstand, untouched ever since he plugged it into the charger the night before. There were far too many notifications waiting on him. Mostly bullshit emails from chain restaurants that he needed to unsubscribe from, but instead of doing that, Keith tended to avoid properly opening his inbox as much as possible and instead cleared the notifications as they came. Others were push notifications from Reddit, suggesting subreddits he'd never dream of going onto.

Fortunately, that was it. He was expecting there to be texts from any of his friends, but they must have either taken his demand to heart, or been too distracted at the bar to worry about contacting him. Either way, he was glad for it. As he opened the messaging app, he considered the merits of creating a group chat for the four of them. That would've been easiest, he could send off one text and be done with it.

But he didn't know what sort of texters they were, and he felt almost certain that Lance was the type who spammed reaction gifs and indecipherable chains of emojis. Keith absolutely did not want to deal with that, and that was more than enough to settle on just messaging Pidge. She was the one who invited him in the first place, after all.

_ Sorry about last night. _

Once his phone confirmed that it was sent properly, he locked his phone and set it aside once more. There was no point in waiting around for a response to him doing the bare minimum. Besides, there were more pressing matters to attend to, now that he had almost enough coffee running through his veins.

Like investigating the abandoned building just a short trek from his home. Sure, there was the pressing matter of finding a job, because he couldn't live off of what was left of his credit card balance forever. But if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, and there actually was an animal hiding out around there, particularly a young one that may or may not have the survival skills necessary for such a thing? Potentially helping that animal was the most important thing he could think to do with his time.

By the time he got dressed, brushed his teeth, and laced up his shoes, it was late enough in the morning that it was already feeling relatively hot. It would only get worse as the day progressed, particularly if the lack of cloud cover held into late afternoon. It was common for afternoon thunderstorms to manifest, but whether they would or wouldn't was heavily dependent on the mountains. Whether it happened or not, it wasn't the end of the world. He could deal with it.

He patted down his pockets, ensuring that his keys and phone were, in fact, on his person. Before he actually headed out, he went back to the kitchen. He didn't have any sort of dog food, or animal feed in general in his house, because what point was there? What he did have, though, was a half-finished package of bologna. In any other circumstance, he wouldn't opt for something so salty and processed for a dog, but any food was better than no food.

The trek back up the hill didn't take long, and with having the full visibility that daytime had to offer, as soon as the building was in view, he could see a solid black animal sniffing at the sidewalk near the schoolhouse, which looked even decrepit now, with overgrown grass and a chain link fence that bowed under the weight of time and neglect.

Keith slowed his pace, not wanting to startle the dog as he approached. From this distance, he couldn't put an age on it, but it was  _ definitely _ a puppy. The lack of proportions and very obvious puppy face gave that away.

The puppy finally noticed him approach when he was half a block away. It froze, staring at him like a deer in headlights. Keith held onto the hope that he could get close enough to see if it had a collar, if not outright get hold of it so he could take it somewhere to see if it was microchipped. There was no way that a puppy wasn't missed, after all.

Those hopes vanished the moment a truck backfired a few houses behind him. The puppy bolted under a weak spot in the fence, running up the steps of the schoolhouse and out of view. Keith shot a glare toward the offending vehicle, but continued his walk up to the fence all the same. It was one he could scale, or climb under easily enough, but unlike the open field he stargazed in, he knew that if it was still the same person who owned it the last time he lived here, it was someone who absolutely  _ would _ pursue trespassing charges if he got caught. That was a headache in and of itself, and Keith could do without it.

Instead, he lingered at the gate. If the puppy was as scared as Keith assumed it was, there was no way it was emerging from its hiding spot. The least he could do in the meantime was ensure that it had access to food. Squatting down toward the ground, he ripped the lid all the way off the container of bologna and ripped the slices that remained into easy to eat pieces. He left the container on the sidewalk, somewhat adjacent to the part of the fence that the puppy dove under.

Sparing the steps one more glance, he headed back home.

* * *

Keith didn't want to know what it said about him that he'd not even been back in his hometown for a week, he hadn't even attempted to find a job, and he was already completely obsessed with a puppy he hadn't even directly interacted with. It could've just been lost. Maybe it was an escape artist who figured out how to leave its home, and its yard, or wherever it was residing before it holed itself up on that property. It was possible that the puppy already found its way home, as it was now early afternoon.

But what if that wasn't the case? What if it was an actual stray?

The thought brought forth unpleasant feelings that he didn't want to linger on. His heart clenched, and his resolve solidified. Whatever was going on with the puppy, he was going to do everything in his power to help it.

Pacing the house, he found his phone, unceremoniously tossed onto the kitchen counter with his keys. Out of habit, he unlocked his phone to check the time and to see whether there was anything of importance waiting on him. This time, instead of emails, there was a message from Pidge.

_ Make it up to me by hanging out with us again next time :-) _

Keith didn't respond, figuring 'read at 2:31 P.M.' was adequate. Instead, he locked his phone, slid it back into his pocket. He grabbed his keys, found his wallet, and headed out.

There were two options for the supplies he needed: Big R, or Wal-Mart. Neither were exactly ideal; one was more expensive, catering to the ranchers that lived in the area, and the other was... well. It was Wal-Mart. He had to settle for that, or drive at least an hour north in hopes of finding a proper pet store. He wasn't particularly keen on that idea, especially given the uncertainty of the overall situation.

Gritting his teeth, he settled on the obnoxious supercenter that most folks in town had no other choice but to shop at. It took about ten minutes to get there simply because of the sheer number of stop signs and four ways he encountered with the route he chose. He arrived at a packed parking lot, which made him doubt his ability to be as in and out of the store as possible, but he'd at least put forth a valiant effort.

He parked toward the back of the lot, near where travellers parked their campers and trailers, for no other reason than wanting to be able to pull through out of his spot rather than backing out. It wouldn't hurt to stretch his legs, anyway.

He hated Wal-Mart. Granted, Keith hated a lot of things. But he hated Wal-Mart in particular, and that hatred only grew when he found that this one was equipped with automated gates that dictated the flow of traffic. A precursory glance around the front of the store indicated that once he walked through that gate, the only way to get back to where he was standing, by the carts, was to go through the checkout aisles. The unspoken expectation here was that anyone entering the store would  _ absolutely _ be purchasing at least one item.

While that was true for him, it still made him feel like a corralled animal.

He probably didn't need a cart, but he grabbed one anyway, and pushed it further into the store. The bakery was to his immediate left, along with aisles of food items. Household items and cleaning supplies were to his right, and even without the signage, he remembered from when he was here several days ago, that the pet section was wedged right between the two.

What he didn't remember was how it was organized, so he stopped the cart in front of the mealworms and pig feed as he scanned the shelves. Keith knew there was no point in getting too carried away. He didn't need more than a small bag of dog food and a leash. And yet, he found himself hovering over the dog beds.

The selection was awful, they were overpriced, and he was getting ahead of himself again. Keith couldn't help but acknowledge that there was something nice about the idea of having a dog, though. His studio in Denver had been expensive enough as it was; he never even let himself consider how much pet-friendly housing would've run him. But here? It was completely different.

Even if this panned out in a way that would merit purchasing a dog bed, he needed to wait. He was able to find a simple leash on this aisle, but that was the extent of it. The rest of the items on the shelves were dedicated to small mammals, birds, and fish.

The next aisle over was more fruitful; there were several sections of dog food. Most of the options ranged from medium to low quality, in bags that were upwards to fifty pounds. That seemed like overkill. He didn't want to get stuck with too much dog food when he didn't know whether it was going to get eaten, nor did he want to buy massive quantities when he had no idea whether the puppy would like the food.

The smaller bags were along the top shelf, and when he found one that said its formula was designed for puppies, along with some other buzzwords that made it seem like a decent choice, Keith had to stand on his tiptoes to reach it.

"Keith?"

He froze, fingertips just barely grasping the edge of the dog food bag.

"Holy shit, it's you. I'd recognize you anywhere."

_ And I'd recognize that voice anywhere, _ he thought mournfully. Suddenly, he was reeled back to feeling like a hopeless teenager and young adult with a crush.

He licked his chapped lips slowly, and spared a glance in the direction that voice came from. "Hi, Shiro."

He was beautiful. Shiro had always been beautiful: tall, and broad-shouldered, with a chiselled jaw, but time served him well: he'd aged like a fine wine, and was dressed smartly in a pair of slacks and a button up that bordered  _ too snug _ . His hair was solid white, and whether that was a stylized choice or premature grey, Keith didn't know, nor did he care. He might've been as solid as an oak tree a decade ago, but he was a sequoia now, and Keith hated that his first thought was about how much he wanted to  _ climb him. _

"Let me help you with that." Ever the boy scout, Shiro abandoned his cart in favor of crowding Keith's space. He reached over Keith's shoulder, and from Keith's vantage point, he saw that the hand grabbing the dog food bag was some kind of metal prosthetic. That was another new thing, but Keith had the social awareness enough to refrain from asking about it.

"Thanks," Keith said quickly, dipping out from under Shiro under the guise of putting the bag in his cart. Not even twenty-four hours ago, he felt certain he'd never be ready to see Shiro again, and here he was now. Encountering him in a fucking  _ Wal-Mart _ of all places. It wasn't ideal at all.

"I heard you were back in town." Shiro tilted his head thoughtfully, as if it was through the grapevine, and not last night moments sometime after Keith made it obvious to that entire group that he was reluctant to see him.

"Yup." Keith rubbed the back of his neck, determined to look anywhere except for directly at his old best friend. Caught off guard like this, there was too much he didn't want to readily give away. The fact of the matter was that the avoidance and stilted conversation was as much of a giveaway as anything else.

"I take it you have a dog."

Why did everyone, ever, when having a chance meeting in a store, decide to engage in smalltalk? Keith hated small talk. It didn't matter that it was Shiro. There was nearly a decade of space between them that made this awkward. "Not exactly. You, uh, know that school up on First? There's a puppy hiding out over there. Or was. I don't know. But I thought maybe, just in case—" Rather than finishing the thought, he shrugged.

Shiro smiled at him, in that brilliant way that made his cheeks flush and his heart ache. After all this time, Takashi Shirogane did that to him. "That's wonderful, Keith. There's not enough people around here that would care about that. If you need help luring it out or anything, just let me know. I can ask around, and find out whether anyone is missing a dog."

Keith wasn't prepared for a chance encounter that he should've expected in a town of nine thousand, and was even more unprepared to properly spend time with him in any capacity. At the same time, he couldn't deny that there was a part of him that absolutely wanted to jump at the opportunity. "It's kind of a weird situation and not anything that has a set time frame, Shiro, and I'm sure you're busy." He was certainly dressed like he was.

As perceptive as he was, he didn't miss the falter in Shiro's smile. "I am. But I'd make time for you." There was probably never a man as prepared as Shiro; he immediately pulled a business card out of his wallet, and a pen from his pocket to write on the back of it. "Whether it's stray dog wrangling, or just to catch up. I want to hear about everything you've been up to. My cell is on the back. Text me, any time. I mean it."

Keith nodded as he smoothed his fingers over the embossed print on the ivory business card. "Alright." Whether he actually would, was something else entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In one of the comments I'm pretty sure I was like "I'll get this up in a couple days hopefully!" and then life happened. But it's here now. Hope you enjoy ♥   
> Things get sort of, almost spicy in this one.
> 
> As always, you can find me [on twitter](https://twitter.com/guineaDogs).

The bologna Keith left out was gone, and while he had no proof of what ate it, he assumed the puppy did, and left a generous bowl of kibble out beside the fence. Surely building trust through food and routine would be the surefire way to get the end result he wanted. (Which was definitely, strictly to reunite the puppy with its family. He couldn’t— _ wouldn’t— _ allow himself to take that thought any further.)

For the time being, knowing there was nothing else he could do today allowed himself a reprieve from one fixation to another. 

He'd looked at the business card several times since he received it, but now that he was back home, stretched out on his bed, there was nothing in the world that was quite as interesting as this card. Keith smoothed his fingers over the business card as he held it above his head. The embossed print felt like a barely present ridge beneath the pad of his thumb. It was nice; clearly Shiro, or whoever ordered the set of cards this one was part of, didn't skimp. That didn't surprise him, but everything printed on the card itself certainly did.

The logo was a simple one: the outline of familiar mountains in the background, with the words  _ Sopris Reorganized School District 4  _ in front of it _.  _ The next line elegantly read Shiro's name. In smaller text beneath that:  _ K12 Principal, Sopris School.  _ Other information was on the front of the card, such as an office number, email, and school website, but none of that mattered as much as the title Shiro held.

Principal.

It made something in his chest feel funny. The sort of  _ funny _ that only happened where Shiro was concerned—a bubbling sensation deep in his chest, one that he’d often tried to smother out with a pillow before it could rise to the surface. It had once frustrated him, but after a certain point, it was an emotion he didn't have to bottle up anymore; time and distance had taken care of that for him, but it was apparent that it'd never truly gone away. As if that encounter in fucking  _ Wal-Mart _ of all places wasn't proof enough.

Keith sighed, flipping the card over to study Shiro's handwriting. If there was any meaning behind the rightward slant of his writing, the serif on the one, the slash through the seven, or the eight that looked like two circles stacked upon one another, Keith couldn't say, but it didn't stop him from regarding it as something to decode.

There was a lot he didn't know about him, not anymore. The last time he'd spoken to Shiro—or somewhere around that point—he was working on an astrophysics degree, and by now, he should've been in Florida, or Texas, or the  _ Moon. _ Not here in Bumfuck, Colorado, no matter how noble it was to be a school principal.

Then again, he was here too, instead of anywhere else in the world. Did Shiro crash and burn too? Did everything he wanted for his life get ripped away from him, or was this what he wanted for himself? 

Keith knew there was a very simple way to have all of his questions answered. The number was right there on the back of the business card. Shiro seemed eager to catch up, and surely he could ask every single question buzzing in his mind right now. But that would’ve been too easy or too… something.  _ Dumb _ ,  _ maybe _ , he thought as he set the card onto his nightstand. 

Except it wasn’t as dumb as he wanted to pretend it was. The crux of it was that Keith found a certain level of comfort in the unknowns where Shiro was concerned. It was easier not to know whether he was single or happily married with a white picket fence and children. He hadn’t  _ seen _ a ring, but he hadn’t looked either. Surely a married man wouldn’t have positioned himself the way Shiro had, but once upon a time, physical boundaries hadn’t been something they’d known for each other. It could’ve easily been old habits, rising to the surface. 

Keith bit his lip in an effort to redirect his thoughts from overanalyzing the stilted interaction to the sensation of his front teeth digging into his flesh. He knew better than to even allow himself to go down this rabbit hole where his old best friend was concerned. It wouldn’t end well, and ultimately it wouldn’t  _ matter.  _

The problem was that knowing he needed to let it go, and actually letting it go were two different things. He could tell himself dwelling on Shiro was a bad idea until the cows came home, but it didn’t stop that metaphorical  _ itch _ that resulted in him grabbing his phone to play internet sleuth.

Typing in  _ Takashi Shirogane Sopris _ was enough to pull up the school’s website, along with a plethora of other links, including articles from local papers. The link he selected rerouted to an article that seemed promising: “Takashi Shirogane Hired as New Sopris School Principal."

What Keith was not accounting for was that the article was hidden behind a paywall that required a login. Apart from the title, and the article's date—which was late summer the previous year—the only thing he could see was half of the first sentence:  _ Mr. Shirogane, formerly a teacher at _

Keith groaned in frustration, letting his phone fall against his chest. He threw an arm dramatically over his eyes. There was probably a way around the paywall, but was he that desperate? Did he really want to go through the effort? Alternatively, did he want to pay the $0.99 to read the article?

He wasn't lazy, but his wallet existing somewhere in the kitchen and not within an arm's length was a deterrent enough for the time being. It crossed some sort of boundary to go through that effort, didn’t it? Checking socials was out of the question, too—he’d made it this far in life without so much as making a  _ MySpace _ , much less Facebook or anything else—so Keith was resigned to this being his short-lived attempt at snooping. 

It really was fine. The path was perfectly clear: he just needed to text Shiro, and let things go organically from there. In any other circumstance, indecision and inaction would have been unheard of, but that was exactly where Keith was where Shiro was concerned. The worst part was that it wasn't always this way. And that was all on him, not Shiro.

He knew he could easily remedy this whole  _ asinine _ situation by simply texting that number written on the back of the business card. It was as simple as  _ Hey, it's Keith. _ Or  _ Hah wild I totally thought I was over you but I guess not. Sup? _

Keith groaned at the thought, and kicked his legs off of the mattress as he sat up. There were more pressing things he needed to do instead of dwelling on this. Like applying for a goddamn job.

* * *

Job hunting sucked.

It was easily one of his least favorite things to do, which he was certain wasn't any sort of special or unique position to hold. It was a pain in the ass to upload a resume, only to have to manually input the exact same information on the following page. He wasn't sure if he hated that more, or the sociopathic personality assessments used to determine how obedient of a worker he'd be. 

If only his life had remained the same, if he could've kept his boring job that paid almost decently, if he could've kept racing—which was more like his  _ life  _ than a hobby he threw all his time and resources into _ ,  _ he wouldn't be in this position. But it was what it was.

It was simply unfortunate that the job market was awful. In a town of only a few thousand, there were only so many places hiring. Of those, not even half of them had online applications. Nevermind what sort of technological advances existed, this town still acted like it was the early 90s. 

Keith had done all he could over the following days, driving around town to stop at every store that had hiring signs posted on their doors and windows. He introduced himself to managers, handed out resumes, filled out paper applications—all of the job hunting procedures that fell out of fashion with the advent of high speed internet in any reasonable city. But this town wasn't reasonable: it operated at a snail’s pace, on  _ mountain time _ , and still placed too much value on a firm handshake. 

"It's ridiculous," Keith declared, upending his whiskey at an angle that had ice cubes rushing toward his lips. It was a small mercy that the elixir didn't splatter all over his face as a result. 

He was tucked in at a table in the furthest corner of the Canary again. This time, he didn't feel that being here was against his better judgement. It was only Pidge and Hunk with him. Apparently Lance wasn't fond of Trivia Night, and Keith wasn't going to complain about his absence. 

"It is, but not surprising," Pidge responded. "Some authority or another estimated a good third of town doesn't have internet access. That, and you know how people are about change."

"Absolutely resistant," Hunk commented with a snort. It didn't need to be said, but they all knew it was true. A town with a history like this one, one beaten down, exploited by boom-bust cycles and left out to dry, was going to be wary of anything that deviated from  _ the way things always were _ . It didn't stop change from coming, but it did present a clear divide between the pessimistic older crowd, and the younger and optimistic. It wasn't even young and old in terms of age—it was who had been here for generations, and who was a newcomer. 

The conversation came to a pause when the staff member running the Trivia Night bellowed out the next question:  _ who was the marshal tasked with preventing Doc Holliday's extradition? _

The tables around them broke out into conversation, but Keith paid them no mind. He leaned forward, elbows on the table as he craned his neck to look at the answer sheet in front of Pidge. "It's Bat Masterson."

"Someone actually paid attention in history class," Pidge commented, scrawling the name down on the paper.

" _ Look _ ." Keith retorted pointedly, to indicate he had no intention of addressing the comment further. He was confident that he was correct, but the way this trivia night was being run, that confirmation wouldn't come until it was all said and done. He was fine with that, because if he were a betting man, he'd bet the few bills left in his wallet that it was highly likely their table would be the one winning the round of shots that was up for grabs.

Conversation carried on in bursts between the rest of the trivia questions. Keith was on his second whiskey coke when the sheets were collected to be tallied. 

The booze settled comfortably in his stomach, but his skin felt flushed and hot, though that was likely exacerbated by the poor airflow. It wasn't the end of the world, and he clearly wasn't the only one at the table veering into a buzzed headspace.

"You know. If you wanna do car things still, there's a place outside of town," Hunk abruptly told him. 

Keith's eyes narrowed as he tried to discern what any of that meant. "What sort of car thing?"

"Not racing. It's like…" Hunk paused, considering his words. "I think you may just need to see for yourself. Dunno how much they can afford to pay, but they need someone creative who knows cars and you're both of those things."

Rather than objecting, Keith took another drink and nodded. He didn't exactly consider himself creative, but he also didn't consider himself a lot of things. At this point, a lead was a lead, and too much free time was only going to make him wither away. "Where outside of town is it?"

"Couple miles north? Yeah, right along the eastern side of the interstate. Look for a warehouse, with an inflatable pig with balls. Can't miss it." 

That left Keith with more questions than answers. The moment he opened his mouth to remedy that, there was a loud voice declaring ‘the Paladins’ winners of the night's trivia. Right then, a free round mattered more than asking Hunk what the  _ hell _ he meant.

* * *

The night air was cool and refreshing when the three of them emerged from the bar. Keith didn't have a clue what time it was—probably too late for any respectable person with a job like his friends, but they didn't seem to mind. 

"I'm glad you came out with us," Pidge told him, stretching her arms overhead as the three of them lingered on the sidewalk. In a moment, they'd all be on their separate ways, but they were reluctant to depart. 

Keith felt unguarded, with just enough alcohol in his system that the tension and stress of the day completely dissipated. "I'm glad I did too." He wasn't completely sure who initiated the hug, but someone did. In a matter of seconds, Keith went from just standing there, to hugging Pidge, to Hunk embracing both of them in a snug group hug. 

As they said their goodbyes, and Keith headed back up the hill toward his home, he was keenly aware of how that was the first hug he'd had in…He wasn't even sure how long. 

In another circumstance and mindset, he might've dwelled on how pathetic that might have been. As he stumbled up the sidewalk, he was just pleased that at least for the moment, he felt pretty okay about things. Maybe it was more than okay. It was a certain sort of elation that only came when one had a particular amount of alcohol in his system, combined with a decent mood. 

Either way, Keith intended to roll with it. 

He missed the lock on his front door the first couple times he attempted to slot his key into the top bolt. But he succeeded, and all but tripped over himself as he made his way inside. Toeing his shoes until his heels were free, he kicked the shoes haphazardly out of the way. He braced himself against the door, which wasn't particularly smart of him, but considering he didn't fall or rip the door from its hinges, Keith considered that a success.

Door closed and locked, he made his way to his room. He needed to get the stench of the bar off of him before he settled down for the night, and figured he'd be better off grabbing sweats to change into afterwards before heading to the bathroom. Keith made it as far as his dresser before he got sidetracked.

From the corner of his eye, he spied the business card.  _ Shiro's  _ business card. Shiro who didn't show up to trivia night either, but Keith hadn't asked about it. He was probably busy, doing whatever it was that principals did when the school year wasn't in session. Keith hardly knew what that would be, but right then, he was hardly aware of what night it was.

It just suddenly seemed as good a time as any to finally text Shiro. He'd just say  _ hey, it's Keith _ and leave it at that, which took care of the dilemma he'd had yesterday. A couple days ago? Whenever it was that he'd gotten so caught up in his head that he couldn't bring himself to  _ text _ someone like a normal person. Apparently he'd just needed a little bit of alcohol in his system to curb the overthinking.

Sweatpants forgotten, he crossed the room to flip the card over to look at Shiro's cell. Truth be told, there was part of him that had it at least partially memorized beyond the area code. He probably could've typed Shiro's number into his phone without even looking, but he wanted to be completely certain that he was texting the right person at... 12:41 A.M.

Cool. Cool, cool, cool.

He could do this. But what was meant to be one text became a flurry of several.

_ Hey, it's Keirg _ _  
_ _ Fuck _ _  
_ _ Keith _ _  
_ _ Sorry. I've been meaning to text you but you know how it is _ _  
_ _ Actually I don't have an excuse, but anyway. This is my number if you did actually want to talk. Hopefully you're smart and have your phone on DND and I'm not waking you up or something. _ _  
_ _ Sorry about that too. _

Smooth. Totally smooth, and absolutely not word vomit that made Keith never want to exist in public ever again. He intended to put his own phone on silent, lock it, and hide it away from himself in the depths of his nightstand drawer before he could make an even bigger fool of himself. He’d gotten as far as pulling down the shortcut menu that had the icon for sound settings when his phone vibrated in his hand.

Shiro replied almost immediately.

_ Keith!  _ 😃  _ I’m glad to hear from you. _ _  
_ _ I’m still up, not a worry. _

This already went well beyond what he prepared himself for, and Keith found himself staring at his phone with wide eyes, trying his best to ignore the thrumming in his chest. He failed epically at that; he could feel it keenly in his ears and it quickly permeated throughout his body. He needed to sit down.

_Oh, cool._ _How’s it going?_ He scrutinized every word he wrote, but still sent it off all the same. It wasn’t pleasant, suddenly feeling like he was a teenager again. But this was Shiro. Objectively, there was no reason to feel nervous or flustered talking to Shiro. Surely the feeling would ebb away over time. 

_ It’s going. Atlas and I are watching some doc on Netflix.  _ Keith didn’t have to wait long to find out who or what Atlas was; following the text was a photo of a domestic shorthair cat loafed beside Shiro’s thigh. From this angle, Keith could see its ears were black, as was a large portion of its back and tail, but there was a considerable splattering of white everywhere else he could see. 

Should he have felt bad about zooming in to see if he could find anything discernable about the thigh the cat was tucked against? Perhaps, but the most he could tell was that Shiro was wearing black basketball shorts, or something similar. Keith found himself so caught up in his study of the photo that he almost forgot to respond to Shiro. Almost.

_ A cat after your own heart, I see.  _

_ We’re basically twins. Or were, more specifically. _ Keith couldn’t hear Shiro’s tone, not really, but he could perfectly imagine his chuckle paired with those words.  _ Any news on the puppy? I’ve been worried. _

_ Sort of? I’ve only seen it one other time, but that confirmed it’s hanging out by the school. I have a feeling it’s watching me, bc I’ve doubled back to check after leaving food out in the morning. After 15-20 min the food will already be gone. I’m tempted to just hop the fence.  _ It wasn’t that he was impatient—okay, perhaps he was to no fault of the puppy—but rather, concerned. The longer it was out there on its own, the more opportunity there was for something bad to happen.

_ You’re leaving water out too, right? _

_ Yes. And either the puppy or whatever other animals hang out around there are drinking it. It’s probably not enough given how hot it’s been.  _ In theory, he was leaving out enough, but that wasn’t accounting for evaporation or anything else. 

_ Sounds like you need something even more tempting to lure it out. Offer’s still on the table. We could grab lunch from the Drive-In and picnic in front of the school. A burger’s gotta smell more appetizing than dry dog food. _

There were good reasons to turn this down. He needed to inquire about this  _ car place _ , and who knew how long that could take? It was hard to say. He could be in and out in five minutes, or he could be there for hours. Keith still wasn’t even sure what that place was supposed to be. More importantly, wasn’t it a bad idea to be around Shiro when he was still harboring...feelings in some capacity for him? That seemed unfair to Shiro.

But Keith had never been able to tell Shiro no, and couldn’t recall a time when he ever wanted to. A happy Shiro made him happy, and if that for some reason included having lunch with him and trying to lure out an animal that undoubtedly needed help, who was he to say no?  _ Sure. Does 1 work? _

_ Yes!  _

There was that pesky feeling again, that sort of giddiness bubbling just beneath the surface. Keith did his best to ignore it; this was practically a working lunch, nothing to get excited about. 

_ Cool. See you tomorrow.  _ He thought that was the natural end of the conversation, but Shiro surprised him again:

_ Hey Keith? Send a pic. _

_ Lol what _

_ I want to add a contact photo for you. _

Of course he did. Keith shook his head and scrolled through his gallery. It would've been more expedient to take a selfie right then, but Keith had some sort of standards. If Shiro was going to use an actual photo for his contact, it didn't need to be one where he probably looked flushed and glassy eyed. 

He wound up going a couple years back to the summer he hiked the Maroon Bells. His hair was windblown in that photo, and his cheeks were red from the exertion and proximity to the sun, but the valley of mountain wildflowers behind him made up for it. He sent it off along with:  _ You’re the sort that adds last names, aren’t you? _

_ Perfect _ _  
_ _ Ha ha, you called it _

Keith probably had no room to talk. He didn’t add surnames, but he  _ did  _ add notes for how he knew people right into the name field. It wasn’t necessary for Shiro, but his contact list was filled with entries like ‘James Vitamin Cottage,’ ‘Romelle PT,’ and ‘Lance Annoying.’ That was neither here nor there, and he didn’t see any point in addressing it unless he was cornered into it.  _ You owe me, now. _

It was only fair to suggest that Shiro text a photo in return, even though Keith felt fairly ambivalent about it. That was until his phone alerted him to the incoming MMS. Once it loaded, he felt his mouth immediately go dry. Keith knew it was wrong to pine for his best friend. It'd been wrong when they were younger, and it was wrong now. 

Shiro was always beautiful, and the way he looked in that selfie was no exception. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d run a hand through his hair sometime as it was drying and hadn’t bothered to tame it. His eyes were a little tired, but his smile? It was brilliant, and his teeth were unbelievably white for someone who was undoubtedly a heavy tea and coffee drinker. It was just proof that every aspect of Shiro was perfect. 

It was a position that Keith couldn’t be swayed from, especially as his eyes flitted downward. Down to his shoulders and a small portion of his pectorals were visible. Something about how thick his neck was, how buff his build was did something to him. He was wearing a tank that could barely contain his defined muscles, and the lighting in the room that Keith assumed was Shiro’s bedroom was such that the shadows seemingly carved ridges and valleys into him. This was particularly true with his clavicles, which were  _ delightful. _

It was bad that this encouraged his blood to rush south. Keith quickly saved the photo, and forced his gaze further to see the final text Shiro sent him.  _ Sleep well, Keith. Talk to you tomorrow.  _ :-) 

Exhaling a shaky breath, Keith responded with  _ Gnight Shiro _ and quickly discarded his phone. He’d intended to shower, hadn’t he? It seemed even more imperative now.

* * *

The hot water rushing down overhead was a relief in the sense that it was a necessary component in getting the stale bar scent off of him. Perhaps if he was a better person, or if there wasn't as much alcohol lingering in his system, this would've been the utilitarian shower he'd originally intended. Instead, as he washed his hair, as he scrubbed down his neck, his arms, his shoulders, and chest, Keith was only left with his thoughts.

He should've set music up to play. There was an old boombox he could've haphazardly set up against the sink, and even older cassettes he could play. The radio was an option. He could've thought to bring his phone with him and played something from Spotify. The point was: he had  _ options _ . Instead, he was stuck with his thoughts.

Or more specifically the singular thought on his mind now, which was a growing desire to be  _ touched. _ Not like the hug from earlier, but deeply— _ intimately— _ touched. His mind buzzed with that desire, and as he continued bathing himself, it was harder to ignore how the growing ache,  _ need. _

Keith wished he could strictly blame in on the alcohol, or how long it'd been since he set aside time to take care of himself like this—which was far too long, prior to him moving—but he knew the major factor here was Shiro. He felt like a lost cause, or a broken record, in his own inability to ignore how attracted he was to the other man. He was unfairly beautiful, unfairly  _ kind _ , and deserved the  _ world,  _ not having an old friend still lusting for him after all these years. Keith couldn't say with any real certainty whether Shiro had ever been aware of it, but the point remained.

The water was still steaming hot, pelting down against his shoulders as he leaned forward, bracing himself against the tile wall with his forearm. Keith clenched his eyes shut in a vain hope that by doing so he could will his desire away. It didn't work, but it never did.

Instead, it made it much easier for his thoughts to drift back to the last time he'd seen Shiro in person, and to that  _ stupidly _ attractive selfie. It was all too easy to imagine what it would feel like to have Shiro press against him, to pin him here in the shower. The tub was small, he'd have to crowd Keith, cage him in.

Keith imagined Shiro's large, calloused hands sliding down his sides, grabbing hold of his hips. There wasn't anything particularly small about Keith, but against Shiro, anyone was small and right then, Keith couldn't deny that the thought did something to him. He curled his fingers around his cock, and as he stroked, ran his thumb over the tip, smearing pre as he did. He imagined Shiro touching him like this. Imagined Shiro murmuring words of praise as he pressed his own cock against his ass, sliding it teasingly between his cheeks as he littered his neck in delightful kisses that sent shocks of electricity down his spine—

He came with a groan he failed to fully suppress, shooting onto the tile in front of him. His shoulders slumped as he panted, attempting to catch his breath. Later, the guilt would catch up to him, but for now, Keith existed in the space between euphoria, and the knowledge that by tomorrow, when he was face-to-face with Shiro, he would have regrets. 


End file.
